


Through the Ghost

by The_Forgotten_Nobody



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, ghost fic, surprisingly unangsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Forgotten_Nobody/pseuds/The_Forgotten_Nobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a Kink Meme prompt: D'Artagnan was killed at the Inn alongside his father, only he came back as a ghost and his mind blocked out the shock of dying: making him believe he's still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I just had to fill this prompt.  
> The title comes from a shinedown song. The lyrics may not fit, but I thought the title did.   
> Prompt: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=745734#cmt745734

D’Artagnan knew something was different. When his father died he hadn’t felt a thing. Well, that was a lie, he had felt the heart-wrenching pain of losing the last member of his family, but outwardly it felt like nothing affected him. He knew the rain soaked him, but he didn’t feel its chill, didn’t feel the way it should seep down the back of his neck and plaster his hair to his face. At first he had attributed it to shock – his body becoming numb to everything in order to try and cope, but it didn’t take long for him to realise something was wrong.

It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He could still move, still function and interact with things, but at the same time it was like something was missing. Something he couldn’t identify but was ever present. This concern however took a back seat when presented with the task of avenging his father. He went to Paris, met the Musketeers and eventually killed the man who had murdered his father. Somehow, he managed to squirm his way into the tight knit group of the three Musketeers and they started to treat him as one of their own.

Something drew him to these men and just like the missing piece, it was something he couldn’t quite name but it was always there. However, unlike the missing piece, this feeling was more comforting, as if their mere presence soothed something that had been raging in him before and he had been unaware of. D’Artagnan soon learnt to handle these strange and unfamiliar sensations as his friendship with Athos, Aramis and Porthos grew and he became stronger and more determined than ever to become a Musketeer and make his father proud.

The reasons for the differences never left his mind though. His friends had commented more than once for his unnatural coldness, and after a trip to the physician, he had to just conclude that it was merely poor circulation, although he never actually felt the cold himself. While they were all shivering under the brutal winds from the winter months, d’Artagnan was lying comfortably, unable to understand why he was less unaffected than his friends. Then there were also the times it was as if people looked not at him, but through him, as if he wasn’t even there. It only happened occasionally, and never with his friends, and so it was never a major concern, but it was there nonetheless.

Then there was also the fact he never dreamt anymore. Now when he slept it was like he was in oblivion, until the moments he woke. It was like he had only just shut his eyes and the next second they were open, but it was obvious hours had passed. Time passed differently and d’Artagnan waited for the moment it all made sense.

He wasn’t prepared for the truth.

It had been a routine task; take a letter addressed from the King to the coast so that it may be taken to England for the Duke of Buckingham. They had no idea what the letter contained, only that it was important. Regardless, they hadn’t expected the bandits to come thick and fast through the trees mere hours after they had left. There were eight of them that appeared against the four, and they divided them equally. Regular training had done wonders for d’Artagnan’s skill and he had no trouble at all disarming his opponents, sending their swords flying with a grin.

They hadn’t noticed the ninth criminal.

He came out of nowhere, and just as d’Artagnan finished off his final adversary, he looked down to find a sword through his chest.

“No, d’Artagnan!”

It was as if time stopped. Athos, Aramis and Porthos had all taken care of their opponents and were staring at d’Artagnan with shocked and pained expressions. Athos had been the one to yell but even he couldn’t move, too stunned to react. Their expressions became confused when there was no gush of blood; and d’Artagnan continued to stand. There was nothing, no pain, not blurred vision. The sword had gone through him, quite literally.

“What…” The bandit began his voice stunned and mystified. He didn’t say any more for Athos pulled the same move he had just attempted and the man fell to the ground, dead upon impact, wound bleeding onto the path. A wound d’Artagnan should have.

Without warning, memories rushed back to him.

_He heard the sounds of footsteps, it sounded like a group of men. Then he heard them come closer, two of them, cornering him in the stables. He slowly turned around; hands raised, and allowed them to take their sword from him. Then he heard the gun shot._

_Fear for his father drove him to attack the two men, reclaiming his sword. He chased after them but they were too quick. They jumped on their horses, but at the last second, one turned around and pulled out a pistol. He barely had time to move before the bullet shot through his chest, turning his rain sodden clothes a deep ruby red. He still had to get to his father though. He turned and saw him staggering forwards, a hand pressed against his chest. Together, they collapsed to the ground._

_“Father,” d’Artagnan called out, ignoring how weak his own voice was as the grief for his father took over him, making anything else unimportant._

_“Athos,” his father gasped before closing his eyes one final time._

_The anguish was incomparable. Never had d’Artagnan felt such a powerful emotion that made his blood boil and his heart clench so terribly. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but this was the point when his physical body had failed him and to all outside eyes he had slumped upon his father, as dead as the older man himself. He hadn’t seen it at the time, as his own injury had become lost in the haze of despair. He never noticed the moment he died. The bullet wound had been forgotten in his desire to avenge his father, to see his murderer pay for what he did. Without knowing it, his spirit stood and left his body, ready to continue onto Paris._

Dead. He was dead. Out of everything he had thought could be the reason for the change, death was the one he would have never considered. He was dead.

The phrase kept repeating itself like a mantra in his head and his legs no longer felt like they would support him. He fell to the ground, landing with his palms outstretched on the dirt. Dirt he could feel. Dirt he should not be able to feel because he _wasn’t alive._

“D’Artagnan….d’Artagnan!”

Someone was calling his name. He looked up to find his three friends staring down at him with mixed expressions of shock, amazement, and confusion.

“I’m dead.” He simply said.

Athos sucked in a sharp breath, and d’Artagnan wondered whether he even needed to breathe anymore. He tried holding his breath. He wasn’t feeling the desire to inhale. He didn’t need to. Because he was dead.

Aramis slowly knelt down on one knee. Instead of making a disbelieving statement he merely said, “How did you die?”

And so d’Artagnan explained how the men who had killed his father had also killed him, though he couldn’t explain why he still remained on the earth. Why, unlike his father, some higher being had deemed that he play mortal for a bit longer.

“That is….incredible.” Porthos finally said after d’Artagnan had finished his tale. Like Aramis, he knelt down and he placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Incredible.” He repeated, giving the shoulder a firm squeeze.

Athos picked up the sword that had failed to break his skin and turned it around, inspecting it. He touched the tip of the blade and drew his hand back sharply.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, laying the sword back next to its deceased owner.

“Why are you all so calm about this?” D’Artagnan asked, for out of all of them it appeared he was the most panicked and alarmed.  He still couldn’t understand how he could still exist, why he still felt like he had a physical body, why he had managed to somehow cheat true death twice.

“Oh, we may seem fine now, but give it till tonight and we’ll be racking our brains wondering whether everything we saw was real and being absolute messes,” Aramis commented lightly. He outstretched a hand towards d’Artagnan and the young man allowed himself to be pulled up. His legs still felt unsteady, but perhaps it was all psychological. Can a being without a real body feel its effects? He wasn’t sure, but either way he still had to use Aramis as a support for a second.

“No one can know of this,” Athos said firmly, walking back to his comrades. “It could frighten people and whilst we know now that you cannot be harmed, life could be made extremely difficult for you.”

“Not even Treville?” Porthos questioned, just as d’Artagnan said, “What about Constance?”

Constance. The question had been fleeting but the thought of her remained. He was a dead man, and he was in love. How could he continue to woo Constance with the knowledge that she would be in love with a dead man? It would be cruel. He would have to end things with her, he would have to no matter how the very notion made his eyes burn and-

“D’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan’s head snapped upwards to Athos’ voice. His friend was looking at him with concern.

“You may be dead d’Artagnan, but you are still alive,” he said.

D’Artagnan gave him a puzzled expression. “That makes no sense,” he complained.

Athos sighed as if he were intentionally being dense. “Yes, you may have lost one physical form but I can still touch you, yes?” He placed a hand upon d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You can still feel, you can still think. You can still make a difference. The only thing that has changed is that you have a new defence. A new advantage, let’s say. Of course, we’ll need to see the extent of your abilities, but know this d’Artagnan. You are still on this earth, you are alive, _and it doesn’t change a thing._ ”

“Exactly what Athos said,” Aramis agreed. “God has given you a gift d’Artagnan. He sensed it was not your time to leave this earth and made it so you remained. He would not have done so if you were unimportant. You still have a full life ahead of you d’Artagnan, do not waste it.”

“Yeah, so don’t worry. I’m sure you can still have some pleasurable times with Madam Bonacieux, if you know what I mean,” Porthos added with a wink.

The words of his friends, his brothers, eased some of the panic that fluttered around his chest, and for the first time since he had realised he was dead, he smiled.

“Now let’s go, we still have a job to do,” Athos ordered and no more was said on the matter, for which d’Artagnan was eternally grateful for. He may be dead, but nothing would change. There was the inevitable panic from his friends that night as they camped, but they got over it quickly when they thought about all the ways they could use d’Artagnan’s ‘talent’ as they called it. With his friends help, D’Artagnan soon taught himself how to become invisible and how to walk through things. It was a skill that would end up saving the lives of his friends more than once. D’Artagnan had to admit that maybe his friends were right and he had been allowed to remain on earth for a purpose. Yes, he was dead and a ghost, but he could live with it.  

And if, when the last of his friends died he faded too, that was okay as well. His duty was done.


End file.
